


Nowhere Boy

by ghostlin



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, M/M, Saphael, Simon needs a hug, Simon-centric, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:35:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7273822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlin/pseuds/ghostlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It was an accident, is what I’m saying. I’m sort of like… accidentally undead.” </p><p>“As opposed to the rest of us, who were turned via extravagant ceremonial ritual. Sacrificial goats are optional."</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>Raphael stares. </p><p>“No.”</p><p>Or: Simon tries to write a How-To guidebook for the recently undead, tries to work out how to be a person and a vampire at the same time, and tries Raphael's patience to all-new levels. There's a whole lot of trying involved, basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After finishing Shadowhunters it became immediately and embarrassingly obvious that Raphael was in love with Simon, and Simon, incredibly, hadn't noticed. So. Had to fix that.
> 
> I've never actually read The Mortal Instruments series so sorry if I mess things up. I basically know nothing about the plot of the books so I'm just continuing on from season 1 episode 13. Hope you like it!

 

If he were still alive, he’s certain he would’ve already died of fear somewhere halfway down the block.

Simon frantically rearranges his catalogue of traumatic experiences, trying to come up with his top five.

Ok, top ten then. Post-Shadow World, post Clary’s angel powers, post magical cups and glowing swords and werewolves and _goddamn vampires --_

He stumbles on a loose paving slab, trips over his own feet, and has to duck out of the way of a lamppost that comes right out of nowhere, and the best he can manage to come up with is:

  1. The first, original flavor vampire kidnapping (still high up on the list, that one)
  2. The werewolves’ headquarters (ditto)
  3. The time he forgot to switch his amp on at one of their first gigs, and stopped abruptly halfway through the first verse
  4. The evening he and Clary played Truth or Dare in tenth grade, and Clary kept asking him why he wouldn’t say who he had a crush on, and psychotic Alex from his Physics class dared him to kiss her anyway
  5. The bear costume incident in Central Park
  6. The look on Raphael’s face when he found out that Simon and Clary had freed Camille



Tonight, he’s pretty sure, has the potential to knock all that stuff right out of the ballpark.

But there’s no other way.

Well. There might be other ways, but Simon’s instinct of self preservation have never been particularly sharp (he’d fumbled his way into this situation, hadn’t he, and he ended up dying, _for god’s--_ )

Hotel Dumort emerges from the mist, to all appearances derelict, eternally under reconstruction. Slipping beneath the advertising legend ‘LIVE YOUR WAY NOW… AND FOREVER’, Simon steps into the shadowy porch, feeling the mundane glamours shift and settle around him, assimilating him with the darkness.

His phone is programmed to send a distress call to Clary within the next half hour, unless he disables it.

It’s a token gesture, and Simon knows it. It’s unlikely that Raphael is going to wait around for explanations, or that he’ll still be alive by the time Clary comes for him. But he’s not going into this completely unprepared; the thought of Jace’s self-righteous condescension was enough to make sure he at least _tried_.

Wow, don’t think about Jace. Don’t think about Jocelyn, or Camille.

Don’t _think_ , because he already knows you’re here.

Simon presses his hand against the door, palm flat against the panelling.

He seriously need to reevaluate his life. Death. Whatever. Everything about this has the potential to go horribly wrong, and he’s putting a whole lot of faith in someone who might turn out not to be the kind of person who believes in second chances.

The door opens; he’s pulled through, getting a glimpse of the familiar shadowy hallway before Raphael pins him against the wall.

 _“What,”_ Raphael’s hiss is low, right against Simon’s ear. _“Is wrong with you.”_

“I’m not really sure --” Simon manages to choke out, resisting the urge to gasp a lungful of air when Raphael slackens his grip. “Just, ok, just hear me out. Please.”

“You betrayed us,” It might be his imagination, but beneath Raphael’s anger he thinks he hears a note of genuine hurt. “There’s nothing to say, fledgeling.”

There’s a heart-stopping moment where Raphael’s hand closes around his throat; like he’s about to snap Simon’s neck. Simon tries to stop blinking quite so much. This, the darkness, Raphael’s proximity, it feels like months since he’s been here, although it can’t be more than twelve hours.

“Wait!” Simon flattens himself against the wall; amazingly, Raphael pauses. “I think -- I mean -- I know where Camille is. We have to find her, Raphael, _please_.”

He counts the seconds in the space of one non-existent heartbeat to the next; eventually, Raphael releases Simon. The respite is small; he still looks murderous, and his fangs are still looking entirely too pointy for Simon’s liking, but he’ll take it.

Raphael steps back, levelling him with one of his worst glares. “We do, do we?”

Before Simon can respond, he’s gone, disappearing down the dark corridor with supernatural speed. It’s like sometimes he forgets that he’s not the only one who can do that now. Simon takes off after him, following him into the lounge, unable to stop himself trying to explain before he comes to a complete standstill.

“I mean, I don’t -- I should probably just clarify, she didn’t exactly leave me instructions or anything. But she said _‘we’ll see each other soon’_.” Simon drops his quoting fingers, looking hopefully at Raphael. “So. That’s… a thing?”

Raphael has his back to him him, a silhouette against the dimly lit oil paintings hanging on the back wall. “Why didn’t you stay with Clary and the others?”

“Not my world. I belong here, now.”

“You can’t just flit between the Institute’s interests and the Clan’s and expect a welcome back with open arms. You’re trying to have your blood and drink it too, Simon.”

“I don’t think that’s the expression --”

“It doesn’t work like that! What am I supposed to do, just reinstate you?”

“There’s nowhere else!” Simon realises he’s shouting when Raphael blinks, surprise writ across his composed features. He runs a hand over his face, sinking down into an armchair. “Look, you guys… you’re the decision makers. You have actual goals, and agendas involving cups and magic bookmarks and… and I’m just kind of _there,_ ok? Stuff keeps happening _at_ me, one thing after another, like I don’t get a say in it.”

He waits for Raphael to interrupt, but his leader is silent and watchful.

“So this is me,” Simon looks up. “Making a decision.”

“Camille’s gone.” Raphael murmurs.

Simon nods. “Things got messed up, fast. You… weren’t entirely wrong.” He catches a flash of vindication, and presses swiftly on. “Jocelyn Fairchild is awake. We found the book. Valentine has the cup, and Jace. Our interests still align with those of the Shadowhunters.”

“Your sire is still out there. You can’t tell me revenge isn’t on your mind.”

He decides abruptly that now is not the best time to mention the contract Camille had had him sign. “I’m my own person. I don’t belong to her. Or you.”

“I know.” Raphael murmurs, so low Simon barely catches it, but he’s on a roll now.

“It was me she killed, don’t you think I have at least as much of a right to be angry as you and your vampire politics? But I’m willing to set it aside. It’s about the bigger picture right now.”

“The Fairchild girl only has to say jump, and you’ll ask her how high.”

Simon resists the urge to hiss in frustration. That never ends well. “I have a life, ok? A human life. I can’t just pretend like my heart stopped beating and all of it disappeared. My family, Clary -- they’re part of me.”

Raphael actually seems to be listening to him. At the very least, he’s staring unblinkingly at Simon, like he’s trying to work something out.

“You had new responsibilities.”

“I know that.” Simon turns to him. " _You_ know that. If you’re asking me to choose a side…”

Raphael’s expression is as unreadable as ever. “You’ve already chosen.”

“I’m back here, aren’t I?”

“Even though you knew what was coming for you.” Raphael moves away, sinking into one of the golden armchairs; their luster always seems dingy and silverish to Simon’s eyes, faded by the cold artificial light. “You must be stupider than I thought.”

“We both know that’s getting a little old.”

Raphael growls, darting with deadly swiftness and precision, getting right up into Simon’s space again. “I could still kill you.”

They face each other; Simon stares him down, breathing shallowly; Raphael is utterly motionless, having long since kicked the habit.

“You would’ve already done it. If you were going to.”

“ _You_ should have stayed at the Institute.” The silence is between them is brittle. Raphael steps away.

Simon tries not to exhale too obviously. “And yet here we are. Present. Alive.” He pauses. “In some capacity.”

Raphael turns away, heading towards the back of the room.

“Go.”

Simon goes.

 

-

 

(He only goes to his room, as Raphael hadn’t specified exactly where. Simon still doesn’t have a definitive answer about the whole ‘welcoming a vampire into one’s home’ deal, but he’d had no problems getting into the Dumort after Raphael had slammed him against the wall. He’s not sure if an outcast vampire becomes outcast via ritual, or a certain incantation; he’s pretty sure ‘get out of the hotel with immediate effect’ or ‘leave and never come back, you traitor’ would do the trick either way.)

 

-

 

(The rest of the day is uneventful. Nonetheless, for obvious reasons, he sleeps badly.)

 

-

 

He wakes abruptly, his hyper-awareness scanning for sight and sound. There’s nothing but an empty room, and silence.

At least Raphael hadn’t had chance to get rid of all his stuff; his posters are still taped to the peeling damask wallpaper, the crushed velvet backboard of his bed still has photos pinned all over it. He stares listlessly at the one above his head; upside down, he can just make out Clary’s red hair, caught in sunlight. She’d moved out of that shot, laughingly protesting that she was covered in paint.

He gets up. There’s a note on his desk, propped up between a stack of comics and several scattered drafts of his guidebook.

_Wait here. I MEAN IT. To everyone here you’re a traitor, do not leave this room, Simon._

_I’ll bring you something to drink later._

_\-- R_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback so far! I'm having a really fun time writing this :)

It’s his own fault.

He’s got himself stuck here, _again_. Raphael’s probably going to burst through the door any second, flanked by the entire Clan, and Simon’s going to find himself torn limb from limb.

He paces a little, trying to make sense of last night.

Raphael had certainly been _angry_ enough. But then he’d told Simon to go. And -- he’d left a note, promising to feed him.

If Raphael _is_ planning to tear Simon limb from limb, he’s kind of playing the long game.

Eventually, he sits down at his desk in an effort to stop his restless movement. He picks up his latest sheaf of notes, wincing. He’d been trying out potential titles and he’d thought he’d finally come up with a good one.

_“So You’ve Joined The Legion of the Damned! A Practical Guide, By Simon Lewis.”_

But Simon’s suddenly unsure if _Legion of the Damned_ is all that reassuring.

He’s tried _Horde of the Undead_ (too zombie-ish) _The Shadow Realm_ (too vague), and, in the spirit of getting straight to the point, _Clan of Monstrous Blood Draining Ability and The Curse of Eternal Life_ , even if he’s not sure he could fit that last onto one page.  

He’s been compiling his guide since that first evening, months ago, when he’d asked Raphael where they kept _Vampirism for Dummies_.  

They’d been standing in Hotel Dumort’s vast, shadowy reading room, and Raphael had given him that _look_ Simon’s now really familiar with, that ‘I don’t understand what you mean and, to be honest, I’m not going to bother expending the mental energy trying’ look.  

His chest hurts, suddenly; he’s so surprised at this sudden flare of emotion that he almost drops the papers all over the floor.

The door opens, and he really _does_ drop everything on the floor. Raphael’s expression, at least, is familiar: he finds Simon on the floor, scrambling to get everything back together, the epicentre of a chaos of loose leaves of notepaper.

“Most people would join the twenty-first century,” Raphael closes the door behind him soundlessly, voice low. “And write on a laptop.”

“You sleep in a coffin, you can’t talk,” Simon grumbles automatically, before he remembers himself. “I -- uh -- I mean --”

Raphael kneels beside him in one swift, graceful movement. “That’s… legitimately inaccurate. Where did you even hear that?”

“I just kinda always pictured it, I guess? Not that I _picture_ you sleeping. Do you sleep? Is that just younger vamps? Because no judgement or anything, I just --”

“Shut up, Simon.” 

“Ok.”

There’s a pause. It feels, in Simon’s opinion, a bit awkward. 

His mom used to tell him to _sleep on it, and in the morning you’ll see things in a different light._ He’s not sure whether this applies to vampires; Raphael remains as unreadable as ever, and the flask he procures for Simon only does a little to alleviate the sudden tension. 

To his surprise, Raphael begins to gather the papers around him, stacking them up. “Drink up. It’s going to be a long night.” He frowns down at the top page, reading. “Part One: Food.”

At his questioning look, Simon shrugs. “What? I thought it best to start simple.”

  


-

  


After Simon died, the first problem to make itself known to him came when a guilt-stricken Clary dragged him out one night to go hang out on the fire escape outside her old home.

She’d produced packets of Twizzlers and Oreos, and it had taken Simon half a second of chewing to realise something was very… different.

“I can’t explain,” Simon had been apologetic; Clary’s guilty expression had increased significantly. “It’s like, you know when your leg goes dead? My mouth has gone dead. I mean, I guess everything’s dead? But… it still tastes ok. Which is kind of weird. Is that just because it’s an Oreo?”

Clary had hugged him then, tightly. Her breathing sounded horrifically like she was stifling tears. “Oh, Simon. I’m just screwing things up --”

“No,” Simon patted her on the back, slightly awkwardly since she’d trapped the hand still clutching the Twizzlers against his chest. “No, it’s ok. It was -- very thoughtful of you. Hey. Clary, it’s going to be ok.”

Clary gave a shuddery sigh, resting her head against his shoulder. “You love Oreos. And -- what are you supposed to do without caffeine, Simon?

“I’ll ask Raphael,” A stray thought nudged the back of Simon’s brain. Surely this was the wrong way round? He’d just found out he’d never be able to eat another Pop Tart, and he was comforting _Clary?_ He quickly dismissed it. “I’m not an expert, maybe there’s something we’ve missed.”

Raphael had been less than sympathetic.

“You don’t get sustenance from mundane food any more. There’s no point to eating it, it’ll only make you sick.”

Simon held back a sigh of frustration. “What about _emotional_ sustenance? You can’t exactly comfort eat a glass of A Positive. I need --” he cast around for inspiration, holding up the flask he’d been drinking from. “Coffee. I need coffee.”

Raphael had started doing that thing again, where he studied Simon like he was the result of a particularly fascinating science experiment.

“Are you… getting any of this, Raphael?" 

He watched Raphael blink, like he'd been miles away. “If you want to visit the Institute, or your family, there are… other kinds of hunger you will need to learn to control.” 

“Oh yeah?” Simon huffed a laugh. “Uh, no offence, but I’ve been around Clary and the others. I think I’m ok.”

He wished Raphael had a few settings in between ‘contemptuous’ and ‘unbelievably intense’. Simon backed off a little, feeling like Raphael’s gaze might burn right through him. “They’re Shadowhunters, their effect is different. Mixing with a crowd of Mundanes? No way. You can’t even keep your fangs in yet.”

Simon poked his own canines, trying not to look sulky. “That only happens when I’m nervous! Or around… uh… never mind.” 

“Exactly,” Raphael unzipped his own jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. He took a few steps closer to Simon. “It’s been a while since you ate. I’m betting even I look pretty good right now.” 

“Well, I --” Simon swallowed involuntarily. Had Raphael’s clavicles always looked like they’d been carved from marble? Weird. “I don’t…”

It had been fine before Raphael had _drawn attention_ to it. But now something inside him quickened; he leaned closer in spite of himself, tasting the air, tasting --

Raphael ducked away, grinning, and Simon realised he’d just brushed his mouth against his leader’s neck. He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes widening.

“Uh… I have to --” he hooked a thumb towards the door, words muffled behind the hand covering his stupid, _stupid_ fangs. “Have to go. Got, uh, things --”

He ignored Raphael calling after him, ignored the curious looks on the faces of passing Clan members as he hurried through the corridor on his way out of the Hotel. The Institute might contain a distracted Clary and a hostile Jace, but it was bound to be better than the Durmort at this current juncture.

When he got back to his room that night, he found his notebook open to a fresh page on his desk. Someone had drawn a table, printed and labelled in a neat cursive. There was a post-it note stuck to it: it read _‘these quantities will not make you sick,_ _please_ _stick to them_.’

It was titled _Ideal Radios for Mixing Caffeine into Blood._

In spite of himself, Simon smiled.

His fangs popped out again. He groaned, throwing himself and his notebook down onto his bed.

Honestly, it was worse than the hiccups.

  


-

  


“This is what you’ve been doing in your room all this time,” Raphael hands him a stack of paper, having spent what in Simon’s opinion was an unnecessarily long amount of time sorting through Part One. “Keeping a vampire diary.”

“It’s not a _diary_ ,” Simon glares at him, clutching his notebook to his chest. “It’s… a memoir. A guide. You know, for other new vamps.”

“Most fledgelings don’t need to be told not to eat Oreos.” Raphael points out.

Simon drops his head a little. “I know. But there’s other stuff. Lots of stuff.”

“I didn’t say it was a _bad_ idea,” Raphael reaches out like he’s going to touch Simon’s shoulder, but he drops his hand, reaching for another loose stack of papers. “Come on. Show me.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Simon had written Part Two of the guidebook (angrily, all in one go, staying up until two in the afternoon to finish it) after Raphael had told him most vamps got the hang of this really quickly.

“It’s just weird, ok?” Simon hissed, shaking off Raphael’s grip on his elbow. The light spilling out of bars and clubs along the sidewalk shifted and reflected off Raphael’s pale face. Simon wished he’d stop scowling, but let himself be pushed into a quiet side street without further complaint.

“Why do you have to make everything so --” Rounding on him, Raphael bit sharply down on his lip. “Enthralling is a _basic_ ability. How many times --”

“I can’t help it! I do the hand wave-ey thing,” Simon swirled a hand in Raphael’s face. Growling, Raphael batted it away. “And I do the eye contact, and I concentrate really hard -- and nothing happens!”

Raphael shut his eyes. He looked like he might be counting to ten in his head. He took a deep breath before grabbing a random passerby by the shoulder.

“What the fuck --”

Raphael brushed away the stranger’s protest with a smooth hand. “Why don’t you find us a friend, Mundane? Simon here isn’t getting the hang of this as fast as I’d like.”

The guy looked from Raphael to Simon, blinking. An increasingly familiar blankness began to settle itself over his features. “Sure. Sounds good.”

“This isn’t necessary.” Simon watched the Mundane disappear into a nearby bar, feeling guilty. “I managed it earlier! That girl? At the bus station?”

“She came over and gave you her number. That doesn’t count as mesmerization.”

“Oh,” Simon shuffled his feet a little. “I wasn’t doing it?”

Raphael struggled to keep his expression neutral. “You weren’t doing it.”

After a few minutes the stranger pushed his way through the sprawl at the entrance of the  bar, trailing a confused young woman in his wake.

Raphael nudged Simon forward. For his part, Simon started mentally running through the process. _Eye-contact, hand gesture, tone of voice, be assertive, take control, Simon, come on…_

“Hey,” Simon blurted out, the moment they were in earshot.

“Hi,” the woman looked from Simon, to Raphael, to her vague looking companion. “Um… do I know you? Hugo said we needed to come out here, but he wouldn’t tell me why.”

“Well --” Simon glanced at Raphael. “Um,” _Eye contact._ “I would appreciate,” he waved a hand in front of her eyes. _Was that graceful enough? It didn’t look like that when Raphael did it._ “A beer. If you could buy one. For me.”

The woman blinked. “A beer…”

“Yep.” Simon swallowed, gesturing awkwardly to himself. "Underage. Could you... do that for me?”

Her gaze slid to Raphael, to Hugo, like she was struggling to work something out. She blinked again, meeting Simon’s gaze. _Eye contact._

“I… I will. Do that.”

They watched as she made her way haltingly back up the bar’s steps. Simon turned to Raphael, feeling an odd mixture of guilt and elation. “Was that it? Did I do it?”

Raphael looked slightly alarmed. “You did. It was the most feeble execution of hypnosis I’ve ever seen --”

“Thanks! What?”

“-- and I’m going to go in after her, just to undo whatever... that was. Wait here for me. Hang on.” Raphael turned to Hugo. “You’re ok. Go home and sleep it off.”

Hugo immediately turned away, disappearing into the crowd.

Simon sat down heavily on the edge of the curb, resting his head in his hands. _A beer?_ No wonder Raphael never took him seriously.

 

\--

 

A hand on his shoulder make him look up. Raphael hadn’t been gone for long.

“Can we stop now?” Simon tried to make his voice as plaintive as possible. “I’m bad at this.”

To his surprise, Raphael sat down next to him. “Yes.”

Simon nudged Raphael’s shoulder with his own. “Yes I’m bad at this, or yes we can stop?”

“Yes,” Raphael’s mouth twisted into a half smile, but he sobered when Simon ducked his head. “You’re still a fledgling. Don’t let it bother you.”

“I don’t want to _make_ people do things.” Simon shuddered. It was creepy, no matter how many times Raphael extolled the potential benefits of Mundane control (Raphael clearing the public library after Simon set the sprinklers off that one time _didn’t_ count, because it was an _accident,_ and also not his fault). “So if that makes me an inept vamp, so be it.”

“You have other qualities.”

When Simon looked up, Raphael looked kind of embarrassed, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Can I get that as a soundbite?”

Raphael stood up in one graceful motion. “Let’s go.”

Simon scrambled after him, following him down the street. “Audio recording? Ringtone?”

“Stop talking.”

 

\--

  


“Wow, I hadn’t realised how scarred you were by our hypnosis lesson.”

“I wasn’t scarred!” In response, Raphael drops the thick wad of notepaper that makes up Part Two, watching the mass of diagrams, lists and sketches cascade to the floor. “Ok, maybe it… played on my mind. A little.”

“All this, because you possess all the seductive power of…”  Raphael casts around for the appropriate word. “A baby muskrat?”

Simon frowns. “Harsh.” He squints down at his notes. “What about that girl who gave me her number?”

“There’s a difference. You endear yourself to people.”

“I’m endearing?” Simon tries to catch Raphael’s eye, but his leader seems to be busy putting the fallen mass of papers back in order.

“Some would say so.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” Simon tries for playful, but his voice sounds weirdly nervous. “So I win them over with my unfailing charisma, you convince them to follow your lead. Team effort, right?”

Raphael’s definitely smiling now, although he’s still not catching Simon’s eye. “Interesting division of labour.”

Simon sits up onto his knees, placing a stack of notes on his desk. “Is there _anything_ you’re bad at?” He pauses, suspicious. “Are you bad at things? Vampire things?”

“No.” Raphael says. He meets Simon’s eyes. “I’m the best at vampire things.”

“Ok, so I don’t always know when you’re being sarcastic. I sometimes find it difficult to read expressions--”

“Yes, Simon.” Raphael reaches for the nearest stack of paper. “It takes everyone time to get used to it. I think you’ve even covered it here.” He holds up the title page. “Part Three.”

Simon leans forward, trying to read his own handwriting upside down. “How to avoid thinking about your loved ones perpetually fading away through the eternal passage of time?”

“ _Dios._ Kind of morbid, cariño.”

“I know, it needs a few rewrites.” Simon shrugs. “So."

"So?"

"Eternity." He taps the papers in Raphael's hands. "Enlighten me.”

  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the inspiration for Simon's choice of music from Alberto's instagram, because it kind of fit perfectly? Idk? I had fun with this part, hope you like it x

Simon’s eighteen years old. Becoming a vampire didn’t change that, and neither did waking up into a new family who looked on with cool disapproval at his antics like the world’s most ancient, eccentric collection of great aunts, uncles, grand-and great-grandparents.  

A couple of weeks into taking up residence at the Hotel Dumort, he needed to relax a little. If Raphael was making him stay here then he’d be damned if he ended up dying (again) of boredom.

After double checking the Clan schedule, pacing up and down for a bit with his senses on high alert, and padding quietly around the common areas of the Hotel to check, Simon was _totally_ convinced that he was alone.

He wandered into the lounge, bare feet sinking into the thick pile carpet. Helping himself to a tall glass of B Positive, he added a stick of celery. (Raphael had wanted to remove all trace of Camille’s dark humour, but Simon had snuck some in, thinking it was funny. He was clearly not the only one; the celery supply had definitely been plundered.)

So, for all the world like any average college student (minus the blood) in his mismatched pyjamas, headphones shutting out the musty mausoleum atmosphere of the upper hallway, Simon began to forget himself, singing along enthusiastically and adopting what Clary called his Bee Gees walk.

He was halfway through the second verse before something moved in the shadows.  

Raphael stepped out in front of him.

Simon definitely did _not_ scream.

Impressively, he also managed to retain his grasp on both the glass and his phone, although his foot caught the edge of the rug and, as he stumbled, his headphone slipped off and caught around his neck.

“You have a sadistic sense of humor,” he snapped, glaring.

Raphael’s mouth twitched, which on anyone else would equate to breaking down in tears of mirth. “You can hold a tune.”

“I’m in a band,” Simon said, brightening, before remembering that he was pissed. “Wait, why are you still here? I thought the Clan went out every second Tuesday of the month.”

To his annoyance, Raphael fell into step beside him.

Simon was suddenly acutely aware of his threadbare shirt. Raphael was in dark silk tonight, the collar closed up to the throat.

“Wanted to know what it was that had you so dead set on staying home.” As Simon took the headphones off, Raphael nodded to them. “What is that?”

Simon held them out. “It’s a, uh, a kind of device for playing music --”

“Not the phone, idiota. The song.”

“Oh. The Eagles. Hotel California? Kind of perfect for the current living situation, I guess,” Simon restarted the song and tried once more to hand over the headphones, but Raphael just pulled them out of the phone and the song played quietly into the shadowy hall.

They listened in companionable silence for a while, lingering at the end of the corridor outside Simon’s room.

“I stopped listening to new music some time in the late sixties,” Raphael said abruptly, studying a dark portrait hanging on on the wall. “Things like that start to pass you by after a while.”

Simon felt a sensation akin to missing a step on the stairs; his stomach felt hollow all of a sudden. He swallowed, shaking it off. “You’re old. My mom couldn’t identify Rihanna out of a lineup. That’s pretty normal.”

“I was born in 1937.” At this, Simon went still. Raphael rarely volunteered personal information. “To you, that must seem old, but it’s nothing in the eyes of most of the vampires here. My leadership experience is… flimsy.”

He said it like it had been on his mind for a while, years even. Maybe Simon’s insignificance in the Clan was finally coming in handy; Raphael could admit these things and show vulnerability without worrying about Simon planning some kind of coup.

“This existence… it’s easy to slip into the shadows, not come out for decades, centuries. Some of the residents here, they concern themselves only with the machinations of Clan politics, barely coming into contact with anything beyond the Dumort.” Raphael was staring intently at Simon’s phone, lost in thought. “ And life in the outside world just… moves on.”

Simon wasn’t sure what to say. He was kind of worried that once he started talking he might not be able to stop, and he desperately wanted to keep Raphael here, talking about life and death in ways that Simon had been trying and failing to ignore ever since he died.

“Don’t you like music?”

Oh, right. He can’t stop himself from blurting out stupid questions whenever he can get a word in edgeways.

“I do.” Raphael appeared to hesitate for a moment, before inclining his head to the right a little and walking away. Simon took a second to register the gesture. _Follow me._

Right. Verbal communication was obviously for mere mortals. He followed, swift in Raphael’s shadow, until they reached the high archway at the end of the corridor.

“This is… organised,” Simon stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed around at Raphael’s room. Larger than his, obviously, with an ornate four poster hung with crimson velvet. It was almost completely devoid of personal effects, so neat it could’ve been mistaken for a guest room. The word that really came to mind was… empty. “Kinda… can I say boring?”

Raphael moved to the dresser in the corner of the room where a record player sat, flicking through a stack of 45 vinyl. “I chose not to stick movie posters on the Victorian wallpaper, it’s true.”

“So sue me.” Simon mumbled, wandering around, opening chests and cabinets at random. “If you have all this cool stuff, why not have it out on display?”

“Oh yeah, you’re welcome to just go through my things.” Simon turns around; Raphael is watching him, holding a record. “This is the music I grew up with.”

Simon takes the sleeve as Raphael puts the needle onto the record. “Wanda Jackson. B Side: Funnel of Love.” He flips it over. “Is this a dance song? Did you go to dance halls?”

“No.” Raphael takes the sleeve out of his hands, placing it on the dresser, before tugging his phone and headphones away from him. “You’re going to get these tangled if you keep fidgeting with them like that.”

Simon listened, and he wanted to say that he liked it, that it was good, but instead he let the song play. They just stood there in the vast, dimly lit room, and there were about a dozen things he could have said (about how vinyl music always seemed to sink right through to his feet, about how the turn of Raphael’s head and the way he held himself made Simon certain, somehow, that he danced, about how these lyrics would’ve made him blush had he still been capable) but he just listened, and watched.

As he wasn’t saying anything, his fingers apparently felt the need to twist themselves together. He hadn’t even registered the movement until Raphael’s hands came up to hold his, cool and gentle.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there.

It was only when his phone buzzed with a text from Luke that Raphael’s hands abruptly dropped, and he took the needle off, letting the record skitter to a halt.

“Bedtime,” Simon felt strangely light headed, probably on account of the glass he had left half full. He gathered up his headphones, checking his phone without really taking it in. “I -- my bed, I mean. In my room. I’m going to my room?”

Raphael’s face was impassive. “Goodnight, Simon.”

“Goodnight! See you tonight,” Simon grinned. “I like your music!” He walked backwards towards the door, giving Raphael a salute as he opened it. “I’ll make you a playlist so that you can join the twenty first century!”

He said the last part as he moved, light and fleet footed, down the corridor. If Raphael shouted a retort, then Simon was too busy laughing as he opened the door to his own room.

The other vamps had returned; one paused, looking curious.

Simon’s grin returned. “I’ll make one for you too if you want, Viago. If you ever get bored of Victorian dance hall.”

To his surprise, Viago grinned back, giving him a short bow.

“We’d all like to express our collective gratitude for the celery, fledgeling.”

Simon made a mental note to go back to the night market. The untapped potential for vampire cocktails here appeared to be huge.  

  


\--

  


“What did that have to do with anything?” Simon puts Part Three down, tilting his head thoughtfully. “We were just hanging out. Just guys, hanging out. Nothing... um... significant.”

(He’d spent a couple of hours that night staring blankly into his bathroom mirror, gripping the sink and wondering if he was going crazy or had contracted some kind of vampire illness or something. But it wasn’t like Raphael knew about that part.)

“The psychological toll it takes to live for centuries. I was trying to show you how easy it was to get stuck in time, Simon.”

“Oh yeah!” Simon smiles. “After that, you let me watch movies in the lounge!”

At that, Raphael rolls his eyes. “The point is… we don’t often get new members here. And when one comes along, they have the power to rejuvenate… things.”

Simon wants to ask Raphael something, but he’s not sure how, or even entirely what he wants to say. He settles for pressing the next part of the guidebook into Raphael’s hands. “Come on, we’re on a roll now. If you’re gonna insist on helping me organise all of this, at least give me some feedback on it.”

Raphael frowns. “You’ve highlighted and underlined a lot in this section. It looks angry.”

“What can I say? I'm not an angry person,” Simon says, sheepish. “Yet here we are. Clary helped with this part, and Luke.”

“After I told you to take a walk?”

Simon nods. “Yep. Right after you told me to take a walk.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wants to create one million OC residents of the Hotel Dumort* 
> 
> I seriously hope we get to know the NY Clan in season 2, I need to know moooore.

“Don’t leave me.” Simon whispered. “I’m serious, do not --”

Raphael, unsurprisingly, ignored him. “Eli’s the best at hand to hand combat, he’s going to show you the basics.” With that, he withdrew, slinking back to the edge of the room to lean against the wall.

Simon tried to keep a straight face as he stepped onto the mat. Half of him wanted to break down into hysterical laughter, and the other half was about to bolt out of the Dumort altogether to find Clary and tell her they had to run away to Canada because he was afraid of getting decked by the scary vampires.

“Relax,” Eli put a hand on Simon’s shoulder. His expression was gentle, like he was trying to seem reassuring. “There’s nothing to it.”

They started with simple things. Eli tested Simon’s reflexes, coordination and speed, making brief notes on a tablet. He was surprised at the ease to which his body responded to each stimuli; his senses reacted before he had time to stop and think about it.

Until, that is, they got to the actual combat part of things.

“Ok, I’m going to show you how to take down an opponent.” Eli lowered his stance. “This might seem overwhelming at first, but your reflexes will soon adjust to the change.”

“The change?” Simon tried to copy him, biting his lip. He was fairly sure Raphael, for all his nonchalance, was watching them closely.

“Between Mundane and Downworlder fighting.”

“Oh, right,” Simon laughed. “Totally. All those fights I’ve been in. Gotta love a good skirmish -- ah!”

Eli had taken him down so quickly, rolling them over and pinning him in a fraction of a second, that Simon was momentarily disorientated. Simon felt him huff a laugh and blinked a couple of times, grinning hesitantly as Eli offered him a hand up.

“You’re a talker, huh?”

He then asked Simon to try and take him down. It stopped being fun about fifteen seconds in.

“I can’t -- how are you doing this?” Every time he thought he saw an opening, Eli effortlessly deflected him.

“Here, use the strength in your arms,” Simon gripped Eli’s hand, grinning, trying to copy the way he turned his wrist and the movement of his shoulders.

“You’re thinking about it too hard.”

He watched Raphael move between them, turning to Eli and inclining his head. His expression was cool.

Simon took a step back. “I feel like I was getting it!”

“Really?” In neat, precise movements, Raphael unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling them up to his elbows.

Something about his expression felt a little disconcerting. Simon shrugged it off, feeling his eyes narrow. “Yeah, actually.”

“Show me.” Raphael murmured, stepping onto the mat. This wasn’t the first time Simon had come face to face with that predatory expression, but he wasn’t afraid today. He was just pissed off.

“Fine,” Simon got right up in Raphael’s face, trying to press his height advantage. As ever, he wasn’t sure whether his leader was amused, impatient, or murderous. His eyes just looked dark, staring unblinkingly into Simon’s.

He took a swing, sharp and instinctive. Before he knew what was happening his back was against the mat and Raphael had a forearm on his throat and his knee against Simon’s chest.

“See? Too slow,” Raphael breathed. Simon glared up at him; a stray lock had fallen from his normally immaculately slicked back hair. “Try again.”

Snarling, Simon shifted impatiently until Raphael got off him. “Obviously I’m not going to be amazing at this on day one, Raph.”

“Day one or a hundred, it won’t make a difference to other Downworlders, or Shadowhunters,” Raphael took a few steps to the right, circling him. Simon matched him pace for pace; out of the corner of his eye he caught Eli watching them with a strange combination of amusement and resignation. “You’ll end up dead before you’re finished whining about how it isn’t fair.”

“I’m already dead!” Simon shouted, lunging forward and trying to sweep Raphael’s feet out from under him. They ended up falling to the floor; struggling, rolling until Raphael ended up pinning Simon’s shoulders down with his forearms, using his weight to stop Simon from getting loose.

“You’re very much alive,” Raphael’s eyes were glittering. Simon could feel him breathing heavily; they both were, for some reason. “Let’s keep it that way.”

To Simon’s frustration, the more he tried to focus and be instinctive (surely those were contradictory concepts? Whatever, he didn’t even know any more) and the more he pushed himself, the more his head spun. As the hours ticked by, Raphael only seemed to get faster, stronger, and his defenses more impenetrable.

“Well,” Simon said eventually, closing his eyes. His head thumped down against the mat. “Maybe you could get me a desk job.”

Raphael didn’t respond. Simon cracked open an eye; meeting his stare. “Ready for Round Twenty Six? I’ve got a good feeling about this one, I swear.”

He shifted his hips gently, encouraging Raphael to get off. Raphael looked a bit startled; he rose, pulling Simon up along with him.

“You’re not taking this seriously.” Simon watched him put a hand to his forehead. His eyes were closed; he pinched the bridge of his nose like he’d started to get a headache.

“I am! It’s going to be me straddling you before long, you better believe it --”

Raphael rounded on him. “Just -- take a walk, Simon.”

Simon gaped. “What? Where?”

He wanted to ask what he’s done wrong, but couldn’t see a way of doing that while retaining any scrap of dignity he still possessed.

“Anywhere but here.” With one last dark glance, Raphael strode towards the door. “I’ve got work. Letters to write.”

He spared Eli a nod, and then he was gone.

Simon stared after him. He was so stunned by this sudden turn of events that when Eli’s voice rang out from the corner, he jumped.

“Weird.”

He blinked. “Was that weird?”

“Yeah,” Eli shook his head, handing Simon his sneakers. “Raphael usually has it together. Never seen him like that before. You should probably make yourself scarce for a while.”

“Ok.” Simon said, trying to shake his vague sense of hurt over the whole thing. “I’ve got a craving for Moo Shu, anyway.”

 

\--

 

Raphael got over it by the following night, and if he doesn’t offer any verbal apology, his patience with Simon increased tenfold.

Although Eli sparred with him occasionally, Raphael devoted a surprising amount of time to Simon’s training. The continual repetition of each defensive maneuver ingrained itself into his muscle memory, and eventually Simon did stop thinking about it, anticipating Raphael’s attacks until he was clumsily blocking them, even landing a few hits of his own.

It became almost fun. At least, it did on Simon’s end. Raphael remained intense, and the continual repetition he put into training seemed almost obsessive. Simon wondered if this was a new fledgeling thing; he was Raphael’s first charge since he took over as interim Chapter Leader.

Maybe it was just a ‘make sure Simon’s not totally incompetent at this one essential skill’ thing. He was pretty sure Clary would relate.

A couple of weeks later, Simon finally managed to trap Raphael against the wall. He was trembling a little, but to his utter astonishment, Raphael smiled at him.

It wasn’t one of the sinister displays that intend to show off his sharp fangs, or a sarcastic smirk. Not one of his small smiles either, the ones that sometimes flickered on his face when Simon said something he found funny and Raph thought he wasn’t paying attention.

It was wide, and completely unmeditated. Even Raphael looked a little surprised.

“I got you.” Simon muttered, grinning a little.

Raphael got that look he gets sometimes, one that Simon found particularly, peculiarly unreadable.

“You did.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Part Five: How To Get Over Feeling Like The God-Forsaken Spawn Of The Devil Himself.” Raphael drops the page, closing his eyes like he’s about to lose the will to live altogether. “Seriously?”

Simon frowns. “Well, when you say it like that, it just sounds ridiculous.”

“ _You’re_ ridiculous.”

“What am I supposed to say? I’m a Jew. And I’m a _vampire_.” Simon throws up his hands. “I’m a guitar playing, movie obsessed Latino-Jewish Undead Child of the Night!”

Raphael sighs. “Simon --”

“I have poor impulse control and I can’t always read people’s body language, and nothing about my life makes _sense_ any more --”

“Simon!”

Simon blinks. Raphael’s glaring at him. That glare has taken on a kind of odd, reassuring familiarity of late. It's kind of unsettling.

“You think you’re the only person of faith to be turned?” Raphael’s voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

He shrugs. “I guess, I thought most people... chose this.”

Raphael bites off a curse. “ _Dios._ ” Reaching up, he flicks open several of his shirt buttons, opening the collar. “ _En serio?_ Life is designed to test faith, this life more than any other. I came to terms with that a long time ago.”

“Oh my g--” Simon reaches forward, touching the crucifix hanging from Raphael’s neck, drawing it back. He hisses as it burns, scalding his fingers. Beneath it, Raphael’s pale chest is branded with a faint imprint from where the metal has touched his skin. “You wear this? All the time?”

“It was my mother’s.” Raphael watches Simon trace the edges of the scar, hesitant. “It gets easier, after a while.”

Simon remembers the night he’d approached Raphael, early into his residence at the Hotel Dumort. He’d been struggling, wanting to recite Shacharit, but unsure how to pray at dawn when the Clan woke up at seven or eight in the evening.

Raphael had organised a Skype call with a member of the Clan in Los Angeles, and she’d been extremely reassuring over the whole thing. She said she’d keep him in her prayers, reminding him painfully of his mother.

His mom, who he visits sporadically now. Always under cover of darkness.

“I’m sorry,” Simon murmurs. He lays his palm flat against Raphael’s chest, briefly, covering the mark from the cross. The movement is instinctive, almost unconscious.

“It’s ok,” Raphael says. His dark head is bowed, gaze resting on Simon’s hand. “It’s going to be ok.”

At the end of it, Simon’s not really sure which one of them is offering the other comfort. Maybe it’s a half and half kind of situation.

He smiles to himself. It’s always better that way.

 

\--

 

Simon rested his chin in his palms. “So I’m going to write Part Five about religion. Even if it just says, ‘ask Raphael, who probably _can_ answer any queries, even if he’s not very forthcoming about it.’” He paused. Clary and Luke stared at him from across the table, looking underwhelmed. “That’s all the updates I have, ok? Vampire life is kinda boring.”

“At least he hasn’t kicked you out of the hotel again,” Clary pointed a fry at him thoughtfully. “Seems like you two are actually starting to get along.”

"What? No!” He wrinkled his nose. “Raph doesn’t _do_ social interaction. He just kind of glares, and then everyone does his dark bidding, or whatever.”

“Clary’s right,” Luke interjected. “Especially now you’re not Ambassador to the Werewolves.”

“You’re Advisor to the Interim Chapter President!” Clary grinned. “Which, I’m sorry Simon, just sounds fake.”

“Hey, I give great advice! It’s not my fault Raph never takes it.” Simon dragged one of Clary’s fries away from her plate, purely out of spite. “Anyway, the point is, I manage his Clan Leader schedule, he reassures me I’m not forever damned. It works.”

“It totally works.” Clary winked at him. “Be right back, gotta grab more ketchup.”

Simon watched the whisk of her red hair as she got up, smiling. She wasn’t quite making his stomach drop every time she smiled today; it was just warm, her presence. Reassuring, like home.

“You look well,” Luke murmured, when Clary was out of earshot. “Seem better, too. Raphael’s treating you alright?”

Simon grabbed the salt shaker from the edge of the table, spinning it happily. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s ok. No, it’s good. He’s -- yeah.”

“Less of the sad eyes in that direction, too,” Luke smiled, nodding towards the counter where Clary was gathering ketchup sachets.

“Oh,” Simon bit his lip. “Yeah, uh, I don’t know. I guess I’ve been spending so much time at the Dumort, it’s just…”

“You’ve had other things on your mind,” Luke nodded, lips twitching. “Sharply dressed, aloof _things._ ”

Simon grimaced. “He’s really not _that_ aloof, he just has no idea how to chill -- hang on, what?” The salt shaker stuttered to a halt. “You think I’m interested in -- in -- _Raphael?_ ”

Luke lowered his voice, mirroring Simon’s horrified whisper. “Uh, _maybe?_ ”

“This is about Raphael, right?” Clary appeared behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I mean, you’ve only mentioned him about seventeen times in the last hour.” 

“That’s because --” Simon spluttered. “This is... I feel -- _attacked_ , right now, you realise --”

Luke and Clary exchanged a glance. They looked like they were struggling to contain themselves.

“And -- I don’t even like guys that way!”

“Ok,” Luke said reasonably. “Calm --”

“I mean, _e_ _veryone_ thinks Richard Armitage is… don’t they? That’s not, like, a _thing_. And, I mean, yeah, Raphael...” Simon paused, shaking his head. “Ok. I’m… I have to go.” He scrambled up, heading for the door. “I have… things.”

“Simon,” Clary reached for him. “Simon, wait!”

“I’ll text you!” Simon called, letting the door slam after him.

 

 

\--

 

 

 

“So when I mentioned the whole religion thing to Luke and Clary, they just… well, we got sidetracked,” Simon mutters. “I guess it’s hard to understand.”

“Why do you think the Clan protects their own?” Raphael slides the crucifix back inside his shirt. “But it doesn’t mean you have to shut yourself off completely.”

“Do you ever go back?” Simon bites his lip, regretting the words immediately. When Raphael looks up he feels compelled to continue. “Return home, I mean?”

Raphael’s silent for a moment.“Rarely.” His voice is subdued. “The Gulf is beautiful at night. The sound of the trees in the wind, the fishing lights out on the water…”

Simon waits. Raphael shuffles the papers around for a few moments, looking distant.

“I go to see my nieces, sometimes. My sister, she… well,” He looks up. “There’s only so long you can return to your family. They age and die, Simon. Imagine watching that happen to someone you --”

He breaks off, eyes lighting on Simon’s face, like he’s searching for something. Simon swallows, nodding.

“What are you going to tell the Clan? About this?” _About me_ , he thinks.  

For a rare, undisguisable instant, Raphael looks completely lost.

“Honestly? I don’t know.”


End file.
